


In The Midst Of Summer

by alainon



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, M/M, assumed unrequited, fragile!achilles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8755990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alainon/pseuds/alainon
Summary: “When I heard you were to be coming to stay with us, I was overjoyed. I didn’t know much other than that. We were to be taking care of you, you’d be in my room in any moment, and I was to accept you into our palace because my father was away on business.” He looked down again, and the burn of his glance on Patroclus’ jaw lessened slightly. “I couldn’t really touch why I felt the way I did. You were no fine princess, no eye-popping young maiden. You were just a boy.”





	

His heart hammered in his chest. His mouth—suddenly, invariably parched—felt, for a lack of a better word, stuck. The boy beside him continued polishing the arrowheads cheerfully, whistling softly here or there as he worked. As Patroclus pushed the blade’s edge against the wood, peeling back the bark, he often glanced up at the face of Achilles. Every time, there was the same lazy grin falling across his features, the same half-lidded, comfortable expression. For a moment, the frenzy in his stomach would lighten up, and Patroclus could breathe. But, inevitably, the thought would strike again, and he would turn away, blushing nine shades of red once more.

Suffice to say, it had been going on for a few weeks, and the poor kid was tired of it.

Whether Achilles noticed the attention or not, Patroclus couldn’t tell. He hadn’t mentioned it, so there was that. But there seemed an air about him, more lighthearted than usual. Often around this time—high noon, in the midst of summer—Achilles would be complaining about the ache in his feet, or the way the sun beat down on his pale shoulders. Then, then it was easier. Then Patroclus could choke down the nausea and smirk like everything was okay, and send the gilded youth a verbal jab: _‘What ho, Achilles—can you not take the heat? Maybe you should get away from the stove then. Let a man handle things—you’re but a boy.’_

The tilt of his voice promised nothing more than good fun, and Achilles always knew, tossing back an insult just as graceful as he himself. To see the sides of that mouth curl into his cheeks, pointed upwards like arrows, that was what drove Patroclus crazy. To see the beautiful youth happy. Even when he felt more alone than any man or boy should ever feel, he could always rely on Achilles’ grins to save his day. He could remember their conversation not so long ago— _Can you name a single hero who is happy?_ —He couldn’t then and he couldn’t now, but some days he wondered.

Those days, full of laughs and jokes, those days were easy. But the days Patroclus was left alone to deal with his heart rush, trembling hands and heavy blush—and without a lick of distraction—those were the Hard Days. The days that bled to nights where he would curl in on himself in their shared bed, pulling his double-edged knees into his chest and pressing his face against the wall so he’d have no chance of accidentally touching the other; when their skin brushed, his was set aflame, waves of heat and crimson crawling down the offending elbow or side like a plague. When they touched, it was like static: it was a shock, and always made Patroclus jump away like a wild thing.

Now they were off, not far from the cave, and Achilles was still polishing, still humming some stitch of song barely held together in the heat of the afternoon. Achilles was once again blatantly _not_ noticing the way Patroclus’ blush rode down his dark arms. The evidence stretched down his belly, a warm heat that could not be blamed on the sun. When Chiron came to collect the boys and their finished handmade arrows, Patroclus rushed off ahead of the others, alone. Achilles did not pursue.

 

* * *

 

That night, he avoided the golden boy as much as possible. They’d hardly spoken two words all afternoon, and they probably wouldn’t have spoken at all if Achilles hadn’t silently caught Patroclus by the wrist and tugged him into the cool evening air.

They didn’t speak as they walked, and Patroclus was painfully aware of the way Achilles’ hand felt around his wrist: warm, and tight against his skin. Not squeezing, really, but not limp either. There was a purpose behind those nimble fingers that Patroclus wasn’t sure he wanted to know. His face was a mess of fire and humiliation.

Could Achilles feel the shaking in Patroclus’ every step? It should have been impossible to ignore. He was clumsier than usual, too, tripping over his limbs like an alarmed stag. It had grown darker by then, and he found himself pressing closer to the leading boy’s arm, his other hand slipping to grasp the taut, slender muscle. His breath rattled as it left his throat.

Patroclus hadn’t realized that Achilles had stopped until he walked straight into the other’s back.

“Okay.”

His voice was softer than Patroclus had ever heard it. Achilles’ head was bowed forward slightly, shoulders slumped. He’d let go of Patroclus’ arm, and the tan-skinned youth now held the aforementioned limb with his other, lip restrained by his teeth. He stood silently behind his golden boy—he couldn’t read Achilles now, not when he was faced away. Hell, he usually couldn’t even read Achilles if he was shouting how he felt in Patroclus’ face; and, well, Achilles never made it that easy.

“Okay? What is your meaning—”

“Don’t speak! Please… Do not speak. I can’t see myself finishing this if you interrupt.” His voice cracked slightly, and Patroclus shrunk away.

“… Okay.”

The son of Peleus pulled in a lungful of air. In the dusk, his chiton seemed to fit looser across his back, as though he were hunched over slightly; as though he’d lost all his confidence, and wanted to hide away from sight.

“When I first saw you those years ago, you were sitting next to your father, holding the laurel. I hadn’t planned on winning. My speed is from my mother, and therefore god-given; for me to use it against the other boys my age would be unfair. I was there to compete, not to win. But I saw you, and I decided… _I wanted to impress you_.”

Patroclus was staring now, his face red once more. Achilles had turned, then, to face him, and held up a finger to his lips. _Don’t speak._ Patroclus didn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to. When their eyes met, the dark-skinned boy had to look away.

“When I heard you were to be coming to stay with us, I was overjoyed. I didn’t know much other than that. We were to be taking care of you, you’d be in my room in any moment, and I was to accept you into our palace because my father was away on business.” He looked down again, and the burn of his glance on Patroclus’ jaw lessened slightly. “I couldn’t really touch why I felt the way I did. You were no fine princess, no eye-popping young maiden. You were just a boy.” His breath hushed him softly, and Patroclus glanced upward, pining for whatever lay hidden away by Achilles’ shy tongue.

“I can’t really tell you why I feel the way I do; you are just a boy.” His fists had clenched, eyes pinched shut and nose wrinkled. His lip was pulled back to expose his teeth in a way that could only be described as feral. The image sent chills down Patroclus’ spine, and he, too, looked away, the awkwardness between them growing.

He knew what Achilles was trying to say, now.

Love between boys was a complicated matter. It was acceptable when you were young, glamorous when one was a man, and shameful if you were stuck in-between. As if they didn’t have anything else to worry about. As if their awkwardly long legs and bony arms and not-quite-adult, not-quite-child faces were not enough to deal with.

He knew what Achilles was trying to say, and yet, somehow, he found himself whispering: “I don’t understand what you’re telling me.” Perhaps he was a bit of a sadist, but Patroclus wanted to hear the world from Achilles directly.

The prince scowled and wrung his hands. “I would very much like to be your Companion.”

Patroclus’ brows knit together. “Are we not Companions already?”

There was a flash of movement, and Achilles’ hand was on his shoulder. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Forever. And I want to be able to touch you. And I want to come home to you. I like seeing your smile so much I feel like I’ll die if I go a day without it. I want to have a small daughter that looks like us. I want-—I want bad things.”

It suddenly felt about ten degrees colder, seeing the tears dripping down the beautiful boy’s face.

“Don’t cry—”

Patroclus wasn’t used to this; he’d always been the weaker of the two, but somehow Achilles fit perfectly against his shoulder, face pressed against the darker boy’s neck. Patroclus’ breath choked out from his throat, and he whispered again, mouth turned to the dusk sky. “Don’t cry.” One armed wrapped gently around the blond’s body, and his free hand reached up to brush the golden head, cradle it against himself. “I don’t want to be the reason you cry. I—” But he didn’t know what else to say, so he didn’t say anything more.

The warm, soft body he held began to shake, at first gently, and then uncontrollably, and Patroclus held him tighter and led the way to the trunk of an aging tree. It wasn’t hard at all to pull Achilles down until they were sitting, the rough bark grabbing the skin exposed on his arms and neck. Achilles was basically in his lap, and the shaking continued.

No amount of shushing could calm the prince, so Patroclus instead rocked, rubbing the quivering back softly. Every so often Achilles would calm down enough to speak, attempt to say something, and melt into a disaster again. It was dark out before he was finished.

“Sorry.” It was even quieter than before.

Just as softly: “Why would you apologize for loving me?”

The lithe body squirmed until one leg came down beside either side of Patroclus’ hot torso, and the only thing keeping him under control was the constant reminder of how upset Achilles was. Obviously, this was a thing that he didn’t want; and while that shattered Patroclus, he’d rather live every day of his life broken into pieces if it meant Achilles would be whole. If it broke Achilles, if it destroyed him, if it made him die on the inside like this, then it was no good for his Companion.

“I love—I _care_ for you so much, and I know you do not feel the same way. And even if you did, it would make everything so much harder. I know I’ll get over it but until then, I _hurt_ so badly.”

Patroclus let his eyes fall closed and took as deep a breath as he could muster with the weight of his love sitting on his chest. “I see.”

_I know I’ll get over it._

“How could… _that_ , make anything harder?” The exiled prince was amazed at the fact that his voice sounded strong, when he was so near to tears.

The body squirmed on top of him once more, and he felt Achilles lean back on his lap. “It’s wrong. We’re too close in age, and anyway, we must be married one day. You cannot bear a child for me, nor I for you. How could I have an heir? And what would everyone else say?” He was silent for a moment, and Patroclus felt Achilles’ thin, nimble fingers playing with the clasp on his chiton. He wanted nothing more than to grab those fingers and hold them forever.

“When have you cared what everyone else would say?” Patroclus teased, but his heart wasn’t in it. It was too busy breaking.

“I cared when I started thinking of the future. How bad it would seem, to be the king with a lover. A same-sex lover. It is wrong. I don’t wish for my father’s kingdom— _my_ kingdom—to lose its power because of my selfish decisions. It’s for the best of the kingdom, and for me, and for you.” He had nothing more to say, and the silence stretched on.

The darkness left them both blind, and Patroclus jumped when Achilles’ forehead touched his own.

“Achilles—”

“Just once.” Their noses were brushing and then it was Patroclus’ turn to shake.

“Just once.” He agreed, and the first crack shot through his spirit. When he became a ghost, he would be in pieces.

“This one time, and I swear I’ll be over it. We’ll be best friends again, and all will be well. You’ll have a lovely story for your bride in the future, won’t you?” The joke left Achilles’ lips and neither laughed.

Patroclus felt tears run down his cheeks. _This one time, and I swear I’ll be over it._ He wished it could work the same for him, but he knew deep down that he’d never fall in love again. He’d die for Achilles if needed. There was no one else for him. But that wasn’t the case the other way around, obviously. And he’d die if it would make Achilles happy; when the two were compared, this really was the better decision.

When Achilles gently brushed their lips together, Patroclus tilted his head up and his eyes felt shut, head tilted to one side. He’d kiss until Achilles stopped him; not the other way around.

It wasn’t long at all, or perhaps it was. It felt like the length of a single heartbeat.

Achilles was crying again, too, and so if asked, Patroclus would blame the wetness of his cheeks on that.

 

* * *

         

They lay on the ground among the leaves, body against body, breathing but not speaking, until Achilles sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Okay.”

Patroclus got up till he was settled on one elbow. “Okay?”

Achilles turned back to face him, and even in the blackness Patroclus could make out a grin. “I’m okay now. I’ve accepted it.”

“Oh.” Patroclus laid down on his back, staring up at the stars glittering in the night sky. They began to blur. “That’s good, yes?”

“It’s very good. The future thanks us.” He laughed and got to his feet. “Are you coming?”

Patroclus rolled onto his side and looked up at the other youth. “Not quite yet, I’ll be soon after.”

“Okay.” Achilles turned and began to head off in the direction of the cave, then paused and turned back toward his Companion. “Patroclus?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For not hating me, I mean. And for not making things strange between us. It means a lot.”

“Oh? It’s no problem. You’re my favorite Companion.” Despite the tears streaming down his cheeks like a river, he smiled.

“Excuse yourself. I’m your _only_ Companion.” He could hear the smirk in Achilles’ voice.

“Well, then I guess you have no competition then. Am I wrong?”

He heard the snort and then the leaves rustling as Achilles began the trek back. Patroclus sat up and leaned back onto the heel of his palm until the shuffling through the foliage had faded away. Then, he fell back to the ground, pressed his hands to his face, and wept.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is an old ficlet I wrote last year at some point, and tonight I finished it and decided to post it! It's sort of an imagining of what would have happened at things gone slightly differently. I think I may make a small series on what happens with this agreed non-relationship throughout huge parts of their lives.
> 
> Also, follow me on tumblr @captivenicaise and @beachgod (:


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